


Magic Rush/Simple Touch

by kbs_was_here



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, F/F, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbs_was_here/pseuds/kbs_was_here
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After determining Yale isn't for her, Quinn's loving life at Bryn Mawr. Rachel's also at a new school, taking on new challenges. But her life hasn't changed by choice, it's been drastically altered by circumstance. Canon up through 4x04.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One night to be confused

 

When Quinn took the position as assistant manager of the women's soccer team, she assumed it would similar to her duties as Head Cheerio: She'd be in charge of schedules and arranging the dry cleaning pickup and making sure everyone on the team had their paperwork in order. It turns out, the job's really a lot more like being the team's bitch, and not in the way she's used to being one.

Whatever, though, because she's out doing something with a new group of people, she's able to travel to away games, and it's something to chalk up to the college experience.

Bryn Mawr is full of those kind of things.

She's sure Yale would have been, too, but while Yale is great and Yale is Ivy League, Yale is also very expensive.

And the drama school is a graduate school, which meant Quinn would have had to commit to four years before she'd even able to pursue the dream she chased out of Lima. It was barely a semester before she decided to transfer to something more economical, something that wouldn't leave her in debt for the next fifty years.

Bryn Mawr isn't cheap, but it's cheaper, by about twenty thousand a year. It's also a little closer to home, which makes her mom happy.

She's been learning a lot about herself, ever since she transferred. Like, she's actually really interested in women's studies, to the point where she's made it her major. Maybe it's the influence of being enrolled in a women's college with a strong emphasis on, well, women.

Theater is still an interest, but it's been shifted to her minor. Originally, it was the other way around, but things change and Quinn's learning that change can be really, really good.

She'd much rather be playing sports, but after the accident, her back's never quite been the same, and the school doesn't have a cheerleading squad, anyway.

So, away games and clipboards and picking up dry cleaning. She's okay with it, because she's genuinely happy.

For once.

It's an overcast afternoon with a forecast for light rain, but the game's still on. The third of the season, it's their first away game and there's a bit of a rivalry between the schools, but nothing like Yale vs. Harvard. Still, Dickinson beat them out for the final four, last year, so there's a sense of competition in the air, even though this game isn't the end all, be all for either team. The season's barely even begun.

Quinn's still getting the hang of working out the rosters since Brooke, the team manager, primarily deals with them. Even so, she has her own clipboard with both teams line-ups on them and she knows enough about the game to understand exactly what it means. But because her duties are more about keeping the uniforms clean and making sure all the samples are submitted for drug testing, she's had to learn what she can on the fly.

Midway through the first half, she finds herself looking across the field at a player who's on the bench, her Red Devils jacket zipped over her uniform. She's bent over, adjusting her sock over her left shin guard, but when she looks up from it to watch the current play on the field, Quinn can't stop looking at her face. It's uncanny.

She picks her roster up off the empty space on the bench next to her and scans the player list, but she doesn't spot the name she's looking for until she looks at the list of substitutes and there she sees it: Berry, R.

Except, Dickinson is definitely not NYADA and Carlisle, PA is a far cry from New York, NY.

It's been a whirlwind couple of years for Quinn with switching schools and changing majors and basically realigning her life and finding her chi or whatever's happened that's left her feeling so centered, but she feels like she'd know if Rachel Berry was going to college in Pennsylvania and playing soccer.

It crosses Quinn's mind that maybe she's undercover, studying for a role. Maybe she's starring in  _She's the Man: The Musical_  and this is a character study. It's a stretch but if anyone's been known to reach further than necessary, it's Rachel.

The game closes without Rachel taking the field, which cements the idea in Quinn's mind that this must definitely be observational.

She's driven herself, because it's the weekend and she's heading back to Ohio to see her sister's new baby, so she's not bound to the bus when it pulls out of the parking lot for the two hour drive back to campus. Maybe it's a little weird to wait for someone to come out of the locker room, but it's not like she's a stranger. She'd call or text or something, but she bought a new phone over the summer and had to reprogram all her contacts and she's realizing, right now, that Rachel's Facebook has been locked down and the number isn't accessible.

It's okay, though, because here comes Rachel, along with three of the other Dickinson players, and Quinn approaches the group to say, "Good game, today."

They return the sentiment and one of them good-naturedly comments that they'll be ready, next time.

"I'll meet you guys there, okay?" Rachel says. It's the first time Quinn's heard her voice in over a year. Rachel's teammates nod and offer Quinn a polite goodbye before they continue on.

"It really was a good game," Quinn says.

Rachel shrugs, eyes on the parked car behind Quinn. "I didn't even play."

"Maybe if you had, you could have had a chance at beating us."

"Yeah," is the quiet reply. "So..." Rachel's energy is somber, not at all like the vibrant ingenue Quinn got to know back in Lima.

"What are you doing here?"

Another shrug. "Running late for a party."

"Oh. I can... If you need to meet your friends-"

Rachel scoffs. "I'm just their designated driver. I don't even know if they like me." Her arms are crossed over the front of her red and gray hoodie and the rest of her small frame is lost under a pair of slightly baggy track pants.

"Oh," Quinn repeats. "Did you want to-"

"No," Rachel's already pushing past her as she speaks.

The resemblance between this girl and Rachel Berry is uncanny, but Quinn has no idea what's happened to the girl she once considered a friend.

But she's determined to figure out where she went.

She has a six hour drive ahead of her and she's already not going to get to Columbus until after midnight, but she's starving and she now has an extreme aversion to multi-tasking while driving, so she stops at a cafe in town reads her copy of _The Handmaid's Tale_ while she works through a bowl of vegetable soup and half a tuna melt.

She remembers to leave a decent tip and packs her book in her bag. On her way back to the car, she detours into a coffee house. The place certainly isn't empty, but the energy pales in comparison to the pizza place across the street that's still buzzing from Happy Hour and, though the window, Quinn can see the two dollar beer pitchers being passed around.

Her drink of choice is a dirty chai and while she waits, she looks over the selection of bagged coffee beans and travel mugs. She makes an impulse buy of a french press and a bag of decaf for her sister, who's a coffee junkie, but she's been pregnant and now she's breastfeeding so caffeine is still cautious territory. It's funny, because during the length of Frannie's pregnancy, she kept calling Quinn for advice and it was a weird shift in dynamic, because Quinn's always been used to being the little sister, the one who's supposed to learn from her big sister.

By the time the press and beans are wrapped up, her order's ready and she claims her cup. It's not until she's walking toward the door that she sees Rachel sitting in the corner, hunched over a textbook, highlighter in hand and color coded Post-It tags in immediate reach.

Despite the way Rachel abruptly left her alone in the parking lot, Quinn has no qualms about approaching her table. When she gets there, though, she isn't sure what to say, so she tries to quickly make out what Rachel's studying, but she doesn't come up with anything fast enough.

"What?" Rachel asks. She doesn't even look up from the section she's highlighting.

"I..." Okay, maybe Quinn will stick to a topic she knows is obvious. "I've never seen you actually study for anything, before. It's basically just how I imagined it."

Rachel scoffs and snatches up a green tag, which she uses to mark the section she's been highlighting, then she dramatically flips the page.

"Did-"

"I have a big test next week, so maybe you could leave me alone?"

Quinn adjusts her grip on the gift bag in her hand. "I just wanted to say hi."

"You did that after the game." Rachel raises her head enough to make eye contact with Quinn. "But, hi."

This is so unlike how Quinn remembers Rachel, at all. "Sorry I interrupted your studying. I guess I'll see you at the next match." She waits, but Rachel doesn't seem to have any further comment, so she adds, "Bye," and pivots away from the table.

As she unlocks her car door, she spots a few of the other players from Rachel's team through the window of the pizza place. She knows Rachel's always been the studious type, but it seems a little out of character for her to completely avoid a celebration with her teammates.

She still has no idea why Rachel's even here. But the textbook and the intense focus suggests that it's not just some kind of three week stint for a character consultation. But if Rachel isn't here to play someone else, where is she, at all?

Quinn's dirty chai is gone within her first half hour on the road and with it are her thoughts about Rachel. She's completely wrapped up in her _Girls Like Us_ audiobook that she's listening to for one of her classes and it's impossible for her not to get lost in the examination of Joni Mitchell, Carole King, and Carly Simon. Her mother's album collection was one of her earliest exposures to music outside of church and Quinn's just about always been aware of these women and their songs.

This is just one of the reasons why she absolutely loves her major. She finally feels like her entire life, as rough as things seemed to get, was preparing her for something bigger instead of setting her up to fail.

She stops at a gas station in Bedford and tops of her tank, checking her Facebook while she waits in line to pay for a bottle of water. There's a message from Santana and wall post from her roommate, Justine, that's some video she doesn't have time to watch. The line's taking forever, so she has time to type "Rachel Berry" into the search box and there, where it always is, at the top of the list, is a locked account that just shows Rachel's name and blank profile photo.

This is the same Rachel Berry who, once upon a time, had a headshot in that blank space and requested that all casting inquiries be sent to her agent, which was really just an email domain she'd set up for herself. This was the kind of stuff they talked about for the short time they actually were friends, that first semester of freshman year, when Quinn was just a train ride away.

Before she can stop herself, she sends a friend request. It's not the first time, but it's been a while since she's tried to contact Rachel this way. She's never gotten a response since Rachel deactivated her old account last year and she assumes she probably will be ignored again.

When Quinn first noticed Rachel's Facebook was gone, she sent a text message. It went unanswered. It was right after finals and she'd gone to send Rachel an early birthday message, something to suggest that maybe they could meet up in Lima over the holiday, because they hadn't really been talking that much, with school and scheduling. Rachel was either always in class or auditioning or socializing and Quinn didn't expect anything less from her. She was busy with her own academic career, attending rallies and book readings and learning just how fucked up the world was and how much she wanted to help fix it.

During her time back in Ohio, she drove by the Berry home a few times, hoping to stop by and wish the family a Happy Hanukkah, but the house was dark and there was never any sign of anyone being home. She assumed that Rachel's dads possibly opted to spend the holiday break in the city with their daughter. She didn't blame them, because New York City at Christmas certainly had more draw than the famous dancing Christmas lights house, over on the north side of town.

She wondered about her friend, because she still considered Rachel very much a friend, even if they hadn't spoken in weeks or seen each other in months. Rachel was a constant in her life, even when she wasn't present.

But Quinn also had other friends. She had classes and projects, study groups and lectures, and before she knew it, her sophomore year of college was over and she was spending the summer with her sister, helping Frannie pick out colors for the new nursery, because Doug was tired of his wife always changing her mind and begged his sister-in-law to help with the decision.

She's shaken out of her memory when the cashier waves her forward.

In the car, as she twists the cap off her Vitamin Water, she wonders what Rachel was doing that summer.

She honestly has no idea.


	2. One night to speed up truth

While Quinn was looking at swatches of Canary Yellow and Desert Sage, Rachel was sitting in an evaluation session, listening to everyone around her talk as if she wasn't there.

It'd been six months since the "incident," two and a half since the settlement, and three weeks since Leroy Berry contacted an old college friend who happened to be on the admissions board of Dickinson College.

"Genevieve, I really appreciate you taking all of this into consideration with such short notice."

"For you, Leroy, it's not a problem."

Rachel knew it wasn't because of Leroy or old friendship or anything sentimental. It was because of the million dollar donation being made to the school, the one that was nearly ten percent of her settlement, the same pool of money she wasn't allowed to touch until after graduation.

She spent most of the meeting with her eyes focused on the table in front of her, looking through the lined yellow pages of the legal pad, beyond the varnished mahogany, and into the past where her hopes and dreams once lived, before they were snuffed out.

Everything she had was gone.

Her father and this woman she'd never even seen before this meeting were discussing her future, her education, and all she could think about was how she had no idea if she was even good at anything, anymore.

"Rachel?"

She looked up to see her father offering an expectant smile. A business smile. Not the kind he used to give her before. "Sorry, I was thinking about something."

"Genevieve was asking about extracurriculars."

Everything Rachel loved wasn't really an option. "I... what do you suggest?"

"Well, given your, um," even Genevieve sounded awkward about all of it and she didn't even know Rachel, not at her peak, not ever, "history in dance training, it's possible you may enjoy being on one of our sports teams."

It took one glance at her father for Rachel to see exactly where this was going. Being on an athletic team meant she'd automatically be expected to stay clean.

She didn't care. At this point, her life was about getting from point A to point B.

"What starts first?"

"Soccer tryouts are in July."

She put on her best show smile, a business smile, and said, "Sounds great."

* * *

Rachel stares out the coffeehouse window, her brain muddled and overloaded from the thirty-six pages of World History she's just read and highlighted and marked. Even though she's supposed to be a junior, she's taking freshman classes, because NYADA doesn't have general education courses. The goal of a NYADA graduate is to work professionally as a performer, so there really isn't a need for standard core classes.

Two years, wasted.

As in, they would have been wasted, even if she hadn't fucked up. What if she'd wanted to teach music, even as a guest instructor? Would she have been able to?

Fuck music. She dedicated her entire life to it and what did it get her?

Across the street, she can see Hannah and Liz sitting in one of the window booths. There are other people with them, but Rachel can't make them out from where she sits. They're already drunk, she knows that much. It'll probably be another hour before they're ready to go back to campus, and then they'll pile in her Nissan and she'll drive them back to Dickinson. They'll smell like beer and one or both of them will probably have some guy they're bringing back with them.

She's become the damn Intoxicab.

At the very least, watching them fall all over each other and sloppily make out with strangers makes her feel better about opting for coffee over alcohol. Not that liquor was ever really her poison.

She doesn't let herself think too much about that.

Instead, she picks up her phone and logs into her Facebook. She really only ever uses it to keep in touch with her dads, Cassie, and Noah. There are no new messages, but she does have a friend request and she's already fairly sure it's from Quinn before she even opens it.

If she denies it, the way she always does, she knows Quinn will just send another, especially now that she's seen where Rachel is. And they'll run into each other again, because there's another match between Dickinson and Bryn Mawr in a couple weeks.

She doesn't accept or deny the request. She navigates to Quinn's page and opens a new message. In the box, she types: **what do you want?**

She figures that, out of anyone she's ever known, Quinn Fabray will appreciate that she's getting right to the point.

* * *

It's nearly one when Quinn pulls into Frannie's driveway and her sister is crossing the lawn to greet her before Quinn has time to kill the ignition.

"I thought I'd have to wake you up," Quinn says, as her big sister practically pulls her out the car.

"I have a newborn, I don't sleep."

"I missed out on that thrill, so you'll have to tell me all about it." It's self-deprecating joke Quinn probably wouldn't make to anyone, but this is her sister and it's also the truth.

Frannie has Quinn by the hand and Quinn figures she can get her bag, later. "Hurry up, I want you to meet him."

"Aren't you not supposed to wake a sleeping baby? Isn't this your sacred time or something?"

"We'll whisper. And he's bound to wake up any second to eat, again."

They tiptoe through the house like they're trying to avoid parental wrath. Doug's also apparently asleep and Frannie insists he's earned his shut-eye, so they quietly navigate the hall until they're in the same room Quinn helped paint Desert Sage, that summer.

There's a nightlight on the dresser that dimly illuminates the nursery enough for the two women to peer over the edge of the crib at the tiny baby boy who sleeps on his back and occasionally shifts his feet while he slumbers.

"Peter the Magnificent, meet Lucy the Valiant," Frannie whispers.

"Ah, another Narnian royal, I see," Quinn softly replies. She curtsies and bows her head. "Your highness."

"Does royalty have to bow to each other?"

"That's something we royals will worry about and not you, Frannie." Quinn can't help the giggle that escapes, because she's tired and it's actually kind of funny. "The Royal We."

"I know you like to believe I'm jealous that you got named after Mom's childhood Narnia obsession."

"You are the one who insisted everyone call you Susan when you were twelve."

"It's my middle name, asshole. And, you're not even one to talk about that, at all, Luce."

Frannie's the only other person on the planet who still calls Quinn by her given name. She doesn't even mind, because it sounds like the right name for her older sister to be calling her. Anyway, she's pretty sure there's no way she could convince her to call her anything else.

"Well, you're obsessed, too. You went and did the same thing to your kid."

"They're good books, okay?"

"Are you two going to be up all night?" comes a male voice from the hallway.

Both Quinn and her sister turn at the same time to shush Doug, but it's too late and Peter's squirming and making baby noises that border on crying.

"Can I pick him up?" Quinn asks.

Frannie graciously waves toward the crib. "Please."

Carefully, Quinn reaches in and picks up her nephew, careful to heed all the baby holding warnings she's ever heard in life. There's still a part of her that automatically seems to know just how to do it and there's a very specific tug on her heart as she holds him against her chest and makes soothing sounds to attempt to lull him back to sleep.

When she finally climbs into bed in the guest room, she can still smell baby powder on her hands. When she drifts off to sleep, she dreams of Beth, who's already four and a half, but in Quinn's dreams, she's always the same seven pounds, four ounces Quinn held in her arms that day in the Lima General Hospital delivery room.

In the morning, Quinn isn't sure how to respond to Rachel's message, because she doesn't even really know what she wants or what she's expected. They've fallen out of touch and, for some reason, Rachel has no desire to pick up their friendship. Or, at least, that's how it seems, given the way she's reacted to Quinn.

She's staring at her phone while sitting at the breakfast table and Frannie finally snatches it up out of her hand.

"Hey!" Quinn reaches to grab it back, but Frannie holds it away from her. "Come on, I was trying to do something."

"Well, I've asked you about ten times how many pancakes you want and you've responded with a big absolutely nothing. So, either you're not hungry or you're one of those rude texting people."

"I wasn't texting."

Frannie glances at the screen. "Okay, Facebooking."

"Two." Quinn holds out her hand for the phone.

"Two, what?"

"Two pancakes."

"I meant, what do you say, Lucy the Rudest."

"Two pancakes, please, bitch."

There's a moment where it seems like Frannie's about to throw the phone at her, but she ultimately just slaps it back into Quinn's waiting palm. "Who are you even talking to? Because it doesn't look like they're interested," she comments, turning back to the stove.

"Why are you so nosy?" Quinn asks.

"Because I care," Frannie replies, offering a wide Cheerios worthy smile over her shoulder.

"She's... someone I used to know."

"What'd you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything!" Okay, that's actually not true. "I mean, we didn't always get along. But we eventually were friends."

"Doesn't really sound like it."

"You don't know my life, Fran."

"I know enough."

Quinn wants to be irritated at her sister, but there are two delicious smelling golden pancakes suddenly in front of her, which unfairly shifts her mood. "What time are we leaving for Mom's?"

"Around two? I talked to her earlier and she said she's making a ham."

"Of course she is." Quinn shakes her head and laughs as she pours syrup over her pancakes. "It's not even a holiday."

"Oh, but it is. The prodigal daughter's coming home."

"I've been at school! Not... out sowing my wild oats."

"No, you did that, already."

Quinn frowns. "Okay, that's totally uncalled for." She waits until Frannie looks like she might actually apologize, then continues. "And anyway, if I hadn't done that, who would you have called at three in the morning during your pregnancy to ask innocuous questions about heartburn or if I ever had sex dreams about authority figures."

"I still can't believe your answer to that, by the way."

"Stay out of my dreamscape."

"Seriously, though. Mr. Schuester?"

"It was one t-" she catches her sister's glare. "Okay, twice. But I was a very confused pregnant teen!"

"Yeah, well, you're the one who got knocked up by a guy named Truck."

"Puck." Which reminds her that she's supposed to let him know when she'll be in town, because he's having a party later that night. Quinn picks her phone back up and exits the Facebook application to send a text.

"And we're back to the phones."

Peter's cry comes through the baby monitor and Quinn doesn't even look up at Frannie when she says, "Leave me alone and go feed your baby."

The drive from Columbus to Lima takes about two hours. Quinn follows behind Doug's SUV and swaps out her audiobook for one of her driving playlists. It includes a couple songs that have always made the cut since high school and one, in particular, is an Avril Lavigne track that always makes her think of Rachel.

She suddenly knows exactly what she wants to say, but she has to wait until they stop somewhere, because there's no way she's ever texting (or Facebooking) while she's driving. One near-death experience is enough for her, thank you. Anyway, that gives her time to spend the rest of the drive refining her reply and reflecting on the possibilities that have left Rachel so cold and distant at a school in the middle of Pennsylvania.

* * *

**I want to know how you're doing. I want to know why I never knew you were interested in soccer. I want to know what I can do, if anything, to get you to talk to me. I want to let you know that our friendship still means something to me, even though we haven't talked in a long time.**

**That's what I want.**

**\- Quinn**

Rachel's in her dorm room, the one she has all to herself. As much as her fathers were reluctant to let her be alone without someone to keep an eye on her, Rachel was insistent that it certainly wasn't fair to put that burden on another student and, besides, she'd signed an agreement to attend all of her classes barring actual illness or injury and her participation in a team sport meant she has to show up practice and games, so it isn't as if she would have much time to get herself into any trouble.

She doesn't want any trouble.

She doesn't want any of this.

She definitely doesn't want to explain to Quinn Fabray, of all people, how she's doing.

That said, as much as she's purposely distanced herself from just about everyone she's ever known, maybe Quinn's exactly the person who would understand all of this. But she's not even close to ready to opening up about the last year and a half of her life.

Soccer, though. That's a safe subject. And since she's given Quinn the cold shoulder twice in a row, she feels somewhat obligated to offer something, because Quinn doesn't have to be nice to her, she didn't have to say hello, and she certainly didn't have to send such a damn thoughtful message.

Obligation, though, has its limits and Rachel finds herself sending something less than a formal response.

**I could ask you the same thing. Bryn Mawr doesn't have cheerleading?**

She's actually pretty sure they don't, but she doesn't bother to edit anything before she hits send.

It's barely a minute before there's another message.

**Nope. And even if we did, I haven't been able to do a standing tuck since before the accident. That's why I'm only assistant managing for the soccer team instead of playing, though I probably would have picked volleyball if I were able to seriously consider a sport.**

Okay, now Rachel actually feels bad. How could she have forgotten about the accident? Or, it's not even that the memory is completely erased from her brain. She knows Quinn was hit by a truck. It's impossible for her to forget.

She just isn't really in the habit of thinking about other people, anymore.

She doesn't know what to say in response to Quinn's reply.

So, she doesn't say anything, at all.


	3. We had a promise made

It's not until Quinn's had two glasses of the Red Moscato she pilfered from her mother's wine collection (the party is BYOB) that she follows up on her message to Rachel.

**I thought maybe you were in a musical version of She's the Man.**

The party around her is in full swing, but it turns out that the big Puckerman party is actually Jake's, it's just at Puck's house, because he's all about being the badass big brother. The house is a small two bedroom and it's actually not in the absolute worst part of town. His pool business has apparently expanded and he's doing pretty well for someone she once pegged as a Lima Loser.

She really has no interest in the festivities around her because it's all like a bad carbon copy of her own high school experience, right down to the new New Directions. Kitty is still president of her fan club and keeps popping up to ask if she needs anything and how's college and is she dating anyone, which is weird, because she really barely knows this girl, at all. She finally wanders off when it's announced that they're about to start a round of Spin the Bottle and Quinn is positive she doesn't care enough about any of these people to sit through the game. Fortunately, the one person there who does know her fairly well leans over and asks, "You want to go to McDonald's?"

"God, yes." But as Puck laughs at her eager reply, Quinn puts a hand on his arm. "Wait, but neither of us are driving, right now."

"We can walk. I'm not an idiot."

"You really are, kind of." But it's punctuated with a half smile as she lightly pushes him away.

"Is that any way to talk to someone who has a coupon for Two-for-One McNuggets?"

"That's not the most compelling argument, but it's not the worst, either."

Puck pierces the room with a whistle and everything stops. "Hey, so, the grown ups are stepping out for a minute. Dudes, if you break anything, I will bust your ass. Chicks, if you break anything, Quinn will crush your soul. I've seen her do it." Quinn rolls her eyes and shoots him an un-amused look. "See?"

Quinn doesn't want to stay long enough to know if Kitty's taking notes, so she hooks her arm though Puck's and pulls him toward the door. Once they're out in the open air, she's left to enjoy her wine fueled buzz. She feels warm and happy and through this lens, Lima doesn't seem so bad.

"Can you believe that was us, just a few years ago?" Puck asks.

"Please, they're nothing like us."

"That Kitty chick wants to be you. Like, she might try to wear your face as a mask."

"Gross!" Quinn releases his arm and shoves him to the side. They both laugh as they round the corner. The McDonald's is only two blocks up and Quinn can already see the arches. "I can't believe you have your own house."

"Right? But Puck's Pool Props is totally booming and real estate is supposed to be a good investment and shit."

"I'm kind of proud of you. But... okay, what even do you sell?"

"Okay, so," he's suddenly very animated about this and Quinn can tell this is something that genuinely excites him. "When I was just cleaning pools, I would sometimes go to a house and look at the yard and think, you know what would look really good there? One of those inflatable palm trees. Or, this would be a real hot party spot if they had some of those speakers that look like rocks, you know?" He looks at her for confirmation and she nods, politely. "So, stuff like that. Gnomes dressed up like they're in Hawaii, fake alligators, pool volleyball nets, whatever. I find it online, sell if for double, sometimes triple, what I paid and everyone's happy."

"That's actually very entrepreneurial of you." At his blank stare, she says, "You found a really clever way to make money."

"Not bad for an idiot Lima Loser, huh?"

"Hey," Quinn catches his arm and stops him from walking. "You do not get to call yourself that, even as a joke. Ever. Okay? I know I still give you crap, but you've always surprised everyone with what you can do." She pats her hand against his chest. "And the day you got rid of that god-awful haircut for good was a turning-point for the better."

He rubs his hand over his head. "I was thinking about growing it back."

"No!" She slaps his hand away from his own head. "Never again. Seriously, you'll get more girls-" She can tell he's about to offer some kind of argument, but she shakes her head. "-your own age... or older... with it like this."

"Does your opinion count, though? Because it turns out, after all we went through, you're into T and A."

"Why do you have to be total pig?"

"I'm just pointing out that you're all about the pu-"

"Shut up and buy me my McNuggets."

It's sixteen minutes later, around a mouthful of fries, when she tells him, "I ran into Rachel."

He almost chokes on what's probably his tenth McNugget (Quinn, on the other hand, has had four, at most.) and has to down three gulps of Sprite before he says, "What do you mean you ran into her? Like with your car?"

"No, you ass. At a game. She's at Dickinson. And she's playing soccer."

"The sport?"

Quinn throws a fry at him. "Have you even heard from her? I don't think she's talked to me since last year."

"Oh, uh..." Puck find a sudden interest in the ketchup cup in front of him, dipping three fries in it and quickly stuffing them into his mouth.

But Quinn knows that look. It's the one that says, 'I, Noah Puckerman, know a thing that I'm not telling you.'

"Puck."

"Nah, it's..."

Quinn crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him across the table. "It's what?"

He takes his time, chewing more thoroughly than he has the entire duration of their fast food outing. Finally, he rolls his eyes and shrugs. "I've talked to her."

"When?"

"I don't kno- Ow!" He rubs his shin where Quinn's foot came into contact with it, under the table. "All right, before you get out the waterboard, just relax." He puts a hand up, to keep Quinn at bay. "We talk every couple of weeks, maybe. Sometimes on the phone, mostly on Facebook."

That doesn't make sense to Quinn. Yeah, Rachel and Puck have been friendly since they all first started hanging out in glee club, but she and Rachel were friends by the time they graduated. "Why would she talk to you that much and not to me, at all?"

"She doesn't talk to anyone else. Not since..." He pauses. "Well, that part you're not going to get out of me, because she asked me not to say anything."

As much as Quinn loves prodding people for information, particularly Puck, she also knows he's true to his word and, if Rachel's confided in him, there's probably no way to get it out of him. Unless he's fathered Rachel's baby.

Quinn nearly knocks over her Diet Coke, but she's quick enough to catch it before it falls. "Oh god, she's not pregnant, is she?" Maybe that's why Rachel was benched. And not drinking. Oh, god.

"Christ, calm down. She's not pregnant." Puck casually slides his fries toward her, in an effort to calm her down. "She's just been through some stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" But Quinn knows it's pointless to ask.

"Look, it's..." He sighs. "I know you and I know you're not going to let this go. But I also can't break my promise."

"What if you don't tell me? What if you, like... I don't know... do charades?" It's a desperate attempt, but Quinn's curious.

Puck laughs. "Yeah, I don't think that even someone as talented as the Puckerman can act this one out."

"She's my friend, too..."

"Yeah, that's..." He shrugs, again. "You should check out stuff about hospitals in New York. Around Chrismakkuh season, least year."

"Hospitals?" That would mean that Rachel was... "Was she hurt? Did something happen? And, which hospital? There have to be at least-"

He shakes his head. "I can't. I wish I could, but she's my Jew."

Quinn can respect that. Now she just has to figure out what the hell it is Puck's not telling her.

* * *

Rachel's phone pops up an indicator that she has a Facebook message, one that she hasn't bothered to check since it first illuminated the screen over an hour ago. It's from Quinn, she knows that much.

It's not that her history essay is all that consuming. It's not even due until Wednesday and it's only supposed to be two pages. It's that it's a Saturday night and she's locked away in her dorm room, her Spotify account playing a Lana Del Rey station that she isn't even really listening to. It reminds her a lot of being fourteen, when she didn't have any friends and spent her weekends at home. Her dads never made it seem like she was lacking for anything, though. There were movie nights and singalongs and charades. And Rachel knows she was the center for their world.

Only now, she's in college and a state away in Pennsylvania and doesn't feel like Dad and Daddy's Little Girl, anymore. Not after this last year.

There's no way she's making any more progress on the essay, so she saves what she has and shoves the laptop aside.

The phone dims, temporarily relenting the act of remind Rachel that there's a message waiting for her, but she's avoided it long enough and she picks it up, tapping the screen to unlock it and glances at the words on the screen. It's kind of funny, the joke Quinn's making, but Rachel doesn't have it in her to laugh.

Instead, she navigates to her contact list and selects one of her more frequently called numbers. She doesn't even know if she'll get an answer, because it's the middle of the weekend and there's a good chance-

"Hey, what's up, kid? You okay?" comes the voice through the phone.

"Yeah, I'm just... dammit, I'm not... you aren't, like-"

"Fucking anyone? No." There's a laugh, because it's not that ridiculous of an assumption. Because last month, when Rachel dialed the same number, Cassie was out of breath and mumbling to someone at the beginning of the phone call.

"Just checking."

A moment of silence hangs there between them, then Cassie just says, "Something's got you upset."

"I guess? I'm not even sure how I feel. I ran into Quinn."

"Quinn is which one, again?"

"We were in glee club together. And she..." Rachel isn't even sure how to describe Quinn, at this point in time. "We were friends."

"Did you tell her anything?"

"No, I... I don't know how I would."

"You think you'll see her again?"

"Probably. We're rivals."

"I thought you said you were friends."

"No, team rivals. She's managing the Bryn Mawr team."

"So, you'll see her at a couple games." But Cassie's obviously not oblivious. "Unless... you're thinking about more than that."

"We're chatting. On Facebook. It's nothing."

"Do you need a meeting?"

Rachel shakes her head as she tugs on the edge of the blanket. "You know I'm not..." She was never more than a casual user, trying to fit in, trying to find time for everything. "I'm fine."

"You should go, anyway."

"I haven't even wanted to use since that night, you know that." The mandatory NA meetings were part of the settlement, but only for the first twenty-eight days, because she'd already been through rehab by the time the case even went to court. Given the circumstances and Rachel's evaluation, it was determined that she isn't an addict, just someone who stumbled upon the wrong stuff at the wrong time.

Even though Rachel knows "stumble" is the polite way to describe what happened.

"You need support and you're not getting it while you're hiding away in your room."

"Fine," Rachel huffs. "I'll go."

"Good," Cassie sighs. "Do you think Quinn is someone you can talk to about any of this?"

"You mean the part where I royally screwed up my life?" Rachel shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."

The line dips into silence as they end the call and Rachel drops her head back against the pillow. She grabs the edge of her laptop and drags it closer until she sets it on her stomach, so she can type.

She opens up Facebook, clicks the message center, and starts punching in a reply to Quinn.

**What's your schedule like?**


	4. Four hands and then away

Thursday afternoons are always wide-open for Quinn. After her morning class, she usually has a study group over lunch and then nothing until Friday's 7am team warm up.

So, Thursday was the day she told Rachel she had time to come out to meet up at the same coffee house where she watched her old friend pay more such intense attention to highlighting a textbook.

To be honest, she'd expected there to be at least a couple week's worth of back and forth before Rachel finally gave in and agreed to have a conversation in person. But late last Saturday night, she'd asked for Quinn's availability and now here she was, parallel parking her car and wondering if Rachel was about to shed any light on the handful of details Quinn had been able to wrestle out of Puck. Even with the hints he'd given her, Quinn wasn't able to find anything online about Rachel.

It's two fifty-five and they're supposed to meet at three. As Quinn locks her car, she wonders if Rachel's already there, and then she can see her through the window, at the same table as before. Despite the change in demeanor, it seems that Rachel Berry is still always on time.

There's already a cup on the table, so Quinn catches Rachel's eye and waves before stepping to the counter to place her own order. Rachel's response is a raised hand in acknowledgement, though she doesn't smile. Maybe something happened to one of her dads? She hadn't thought about that when Puck mentioned hospitals. Was she attending college closer to home because one of them was sick?

She picks up her drink (just an herbal tea, this time) and moves for the table, lowering into the empty seat. "Hey." She takes in the sight across from her, Rachel in her college hoodie and simple black skirt, hair cascading over her shoulders like she's contracted to do shampoo commercials.

"Yeah. Hey." Rachel looks like she's distracted, like there are a million other things on her mind that aren't coffee with Quinn Fabray.

Quinn can tell she's going to have to field this conversation. "So... I was surprised when you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, especially after all that Facebook stalking you did," Rachel replies, not looking up from her drink.

"I wasn't--" Quinn's genuinely offended. "I was just trying to make sure you were okay."

Rachel sighs and her eyes focus on something past Quinn, behind her. "Sorry. I'm... maybe this was a bad idea."

"Rachel," Quinn says as she tries to lean into Rachel's line of sight. "Will you just talk to me?" With that, Rachel's eyes snap to Quinn's and there's a depth, an intensity that Quinn isn't expecting.

There's a lull, a moment of silence. Then, "Things are different." And then, Rachel's gaze is back to her cup.

"Okay. I... gathered." Quinn doesn't try to force the eye-contact, anymore. "I saw Puck last weekend and he said--"

There's the sharp sucking of air as Rachel draws a breath and shakes her head. "Whatever he said I--"

"--He didn't. I hounded him about it, but he didn't crack."

Rachel's shoulders drop, maybe just a fraction of an inch, but Quinn can see the wave of relief coming off of her. "Oh."

Quinn takes a sip of her tea, watching Rachel, trying to determine if she's going to voluntarily give up any information. "What happened? Are you dads okay?"

"They're fine." There's a laugh behind it, as if it's a funny question.

"I was just wondering, because this is so much closer to Lima than New York."

"Yeah, it is."

Again, more silence.

"What about you?"

It's enough to get a glance from Rachel. "What about me?"

"Are you okay?"

Rachel looks away, again. But it feels more like she's searching for the right answer instead of avoiding the question. "Not really, no."

Even though Quinn can tell, she'd been able to pick up on something being off since they first ran into each other, she's not expecting this to be Rachel's reply. Rachel Berry has always endured, she's always overcome, she's never backed down.

"Do you..." Quinn shifts her paper cup back and forth across the table top, "want to talk about it?"

"Remember how you used to call me names?" Suddenly, Rachel's looking right at her. "And talk shit about me?"

"Um, yeah. I... that was a long time ago."

"Yeah, it was. It still sucked."

Again, not what Quinn was expecting. "Rachel, I'm so sorr--"

"Auditioning in New York was about a thousand times worse than that." Quinn realizes Rachel was just drawing a parallel, though it doesn't make her feel any less terrible about her past behavior. She doesn't have time to try and continue her apology, though, because Rachel keeps talking. "I was too fat, too short, too Jewish..."

"You're not fat," is Quinn's immediate reply.

Rachel laughs, softly. "It doesn't matter... didn't matter... what I was. I just was never right for the role."

"That's insane. You're one of the most talented people I've ever known."

"Doesn't matter," Rachel repeats. "Anyway, the pressure... it..." She takes the lid off her cup then snaps it back on. "I ended up with a little coke problem."

Quinn realizes her mouth is hanging open, so she pulls it shut, only to have it open right back up when she whispers, "As in cocaine?"

Rachel nods. "It wasn't ever, like... it was only a few times. Just when I needed to lose a couple pounds before an audition or when I had finals and needed to get through the night. But last winter, I had a bad reaction."

Just like that, the pieces that Puck gave Quinn at the party suddenly snap into place. "You overdosed."

Rachel's eyes roll. "It's stupid."

Quinn wants to slap her for making light of it, but she keeps her hands wrapped around her cup. "But you're okay?"

"I'm not using, if that's what you're asking." The answer sounds automatic, as if it's a programmed response.

"Is that why you're here?"

Rachel shrugs. "Yeah." But her delivery of the single word tells Quinn that there's more to the story, that it runs deeper than the casual drug use tale she's been offered. She wants to ask more questions, but Rachel looks tired, defeated. "I need to get out of here."

"Oh..." Quinn was hoping this little get-together would at least last past rush hour, but maybe she can get enough of a jump on it to miss most of the traffic.

"You can follow me back to the dorms, if you want."

Or... she can keep hanging out with Rachel.

-

Once on campus, Rachel gives Quinn brief directions on where to park, but then their walk into Rachel's dorm building is without conversation all the way up two flights of stairs and down the hallway until they stop in front of a door with a construction paper frog on it that has Rachel's name spelled out in glitter paint.

"The RAs do it. I have no idea what the theme is supposed to be." Rachel slips her key card through the lock and opens the door. "Wasn't really expecting company, so..."

The room is basically spotless. There's a sweater on the floor that Rachel kicks toward the hamper that sits near the open bathroom door, but other than that, nothing really appears out of place.

"You have a single and your own bathroom?" Quinn's eyebrows raise, because this is practically luxury living, by college standards.

"You can use it if you want," Rachel says, absently pulling her shoes off and playing with the iPod that sits on the clock radio dock next to the bed.

Quinn decides it's probably a good idea, because she has no idea how long Rachel's good mood will last. She uses the toilet and while the water still runs after she's washed her hands, she can't help but pull open the medicine cabinet, just to look. Though, it's not like people just keep their illicit drugs next to the Advil.

Anyway, Rachel seems to be done with that life, based on what Quinn's been able to put together.

She turns off the faucet and dries her hands on the hand towel, because even in college, Rachel has a full set of towels displayed on the rack. When she steps back into the bedroom, Rachel's sitting on the bed, her back against the wall. Quinn glances from the bed to the chair that's tucked under the desk in the opposite corner, but Rachel gestures to the open space next to her.

Quinn slips her sandals off and takes a seat at the foot of the twin bed. She has so many questions, but she has no idea how to ask any of them. Rachel, however, seems to have a question of her own.

"Is it true?" Rachel sits up and leans forward on one arm.

"Is what true?" Quinn has no idea what Rachel is asking about.

"That you've embraced your Sapphic side?"

"I... yeah. But how... why are you asking?" Quinn's slightly flustered because this is seemingly out of nowhere. She's absolutely comfortable with herself and she has no problem talking about any of this, but... Rachel's sudden interest is unexpected.

"I talk to Noah, too, you know."

"You talk about me?" Quinn asks, shifting a little, because Rachel's starting to edge into her personal space.

"We just talk. Sometimes you come up." And then Rachel's even closer.

"Um..." Quinn thinks about moving, about twisting away, but as much as the proximity of the girl in front of her is making her stomach flip, it's not exactly a negative feeling.

Since she set foot in that coffee house this afternoon, Quinn's been trying to read Rachel, to figure her out. But now Rachel's the one with the questions. "You never thought about it? Even once?"

"About?"

Rachel's practically in her lap, leaning across the remaining space between them before her lips brush over Quinn's. "This."

Quinn turns her head. "W-wait. Just because I'm... doesn't mean..."

"I know it doesn't. But you still haven't answered the question."

This is unusual behavior, given that Rachel was barely speaking to her a few days ago. That doesn't make Quinn's hormones any less excitable. "I... maybe." Rachel's eased back, but just a little. It's still enough to make Quinn notice the space between them and she feels the urge to pull Rachel back in. Her fingers toy with the collar of Rachel's Dickinson sweatshirt, but she resists the desire to tug on it. "But even if I have... that doesn't mean this is a good idea."

"We're in college now, Quinn. We're not high school kids with impossible ideals, anymore."

Rachel has a point. And, the truth is, Quinn has definitely thought about this. Maybe not this exact scenario, but she's definitely thought about kissing Rachel. Her fingers tighten on the sweatshirt and Rachel moves back toward her. This time, Quinn's accepting of the kiss, the one that's no longer a simple brush of lips, but something more intense, more wanting.

A hand tightens in her hair and Quinn's teeth graze over Rachel's bottom lip, which draws out a groan from the smaller girl. While this may not at all be how Quinn imagined her Thursday afternoon would be going, it's been months since she's been with anyone, so her body is more than happy to react when Rachel's hand snakes up over her cardigan and cups over her breast. It's about now that Quinn realizes she has no idea what Rachel's same-sex experience is. Though, given her eagerness in getting this started, maybe it's not something she needs to worry about.

"I've done this before, so don't think you're earning a merit badge," Rachel mutters, almost as if she can read Quinn's damn mind.

Quinn responds by shucking her cardigan off her shoulders and tossing it somewhere behind her. Rachel takes the cue and yanks her hoodie up over her head. She's not wearing anything under it, other than a gray and white striped bra. Her hands grip the front of Quinn's blouse, fumbling with the buttons until it's fully open and then her mouth is on pale skin, just above the bra-line. Quinn's head falls back as she lets the shirt drop off her arms and away from her body. She can tell Rachel's trying to leave a mark, she grips the girl's small but firm shoulders and pushes her back against the pillows.

Quinn plants kisses along Rachel's bare neck, her hands sliding over the tan skin of her shoulders. "What are we doing?"

Rachel's right hand moves up and wraps itself in blonde hair. "Everything," she murmurs in Quinn's ear. Almost immediately, the fingers of her left hand trail up Quinn's inner thigh, under her skirt.

The logical part of Quinn's brain is telling her that this is happening way too fast. But the rest of her body is reacting in favor to Rachel's touch. And the whimpering sound Rachel makes when Quinn presses her thigh against the already damp panties under Rachel's black skirt. "So you've thought about this, too?" she can't help asking.

Rachel doesn't answer, but her fingers make contact with the thin cotton that's already slick with Quinn's arousal. Quinn rocks forward, putting more pressure from her leg against Rachel, which just encourages Rachel to make more motion with her finger tips. This exchange happens back and forth several more times until Rachel finally says, "I need more."

Quinn's inclined to agree, so when Rachel begins to remove what remains of her clothing, Quinn does the same, and when Rachel flips their position and pushes Quinn down against the bed, it's all skin on skin. Their legs are a tangle of tan and pale skin, but all Quinn can focus on is the heat against her thigh. Or, it is until there's pressure pressed up against her from Rachel's leg. It's awkward, in the beginning, trying to find a rhythm that works, but something lines up just right and there's a give and take, a back and forth that's serving them both. Rachel's breath becomes ragged pants against her neck and Quinn's starting to sweat a little, but neither of them stop. Quinn tilts her head, tipping it down, trying to find Rachel's mouth, and when she does, she kisses her. There's another rock, another grinding of bodies against each other and then Rachel's groaning against Quinn's lips, then burying her face into her neck. Quinn needs a little more time, but it's only a handful of seconds before she's coming, too, her own orgasm leaving her breathless, back arched up off the bed while her arms lock around Rachel's lithe body.

She falls asleep. She knows she must have, because when she opens her eyes back up Rachel's position is different, with the smaller girl now tucked against her side, but her head still rests on Quinn's shoulder.

Or it does until Rachel pushes herself up and blinks against the illumination of the desk lamp.

"I have to study."

Quinn laughs. "Okay."

Rachel's hand rubs over her eyes. "No, I mean I really have to study. I have a quiz tomorrow."

Quinn wants to ask if she can go get Rachel any coffee or a snack or something, but then she realizes that Rachel's piling all of Quinn's clothes up and then she's handing them to her. It's actually more like she's shoving them in her hand.

"Rachel..."

"Look, this was..." Rachel's up on her feet and Quinn stands up to follow her.

Quinn's wrapped in the bed sheet and it's kind of difficult to balance the handful of clothing and keep the sheet shut. "...what even was this?"

Rachel grabs her robe from the back of the door and slips it on before she opens the door to the hallway. After a moment, Quinn realizes that Rachel expects her to leave. As in, right now.

"Don't forget your shoes." But then Rachel doesn't even wait for Quinn to pick them up, she just bends down and grabs them, her hand at the small of Quinn's back as she ushers her out the door.

"You can't be serious." Quinn watches as the door shuts in her face. "Rachel!" She pounds on the door a couple times, but she knows there won't be an answer. She rests her head against the stupid paper frog as she composes herself. It's been a long time since she's felt this helpless, this abandoned.

Leave it to Rachel Berry to make her feel this way.

She considers ripping the stupid frog to shreds, but decides he's not really at fault, so he's spared, for now. Instead, she pulls her clothes on under the sheet before storming down the hall, down the staircase, and out into the parking lot.

It's not until she's in her car that she realizes she's carried the sheet with her. There's no way she's taking it back, so she throws it into the backseat.

She's too pissed off to cry about this, so she cranks up the volume on the radio and lets Ra Ra Riot vent her feelings for her.


End file.
